


Impulse vs. Impact

by JasperMoore



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Emotional Trauma, M/M, Pneumonia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 19:12:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13464732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JasperMoore/pseuds/JasperMoore
Summary: “Is that cough still not gone?” one of his teammates will say.And he will shrug, and throw them a smile while something tightens in his chest, completely unrelated to the cough and the crackle. But no one knows about the crackle. He hides it, because what if he’s making it up? What if he’s lying to everyone, even himself, just for attention?“It’s just a cold or something. I’m fine.”“We have a whole infirmary, Tony. Go see a doctor,” another will order.Tony makes a face and forces down a mouthful of peppermint tea. Which, yeah. Out of all the teas he’s been forced to try over  his life, peppermint is the least-offensive of the boiled leaf waters.Of course, it ends up all down his front when another sharp, wet cough stabs through him. He hears the crackle and pop in his chest and something dislodges, and with a disgusted grimace, he spits another glob of rusty brown down the sink drain.He’s fine. Just a chest cold. It’ll go away. There’s no need for a doctor. He doesn’t need to go to a doctor. Doesn’t want to.Because what if he’s making it up?





	Impulse vs. Impact

**Author's Note:**

> This one just kind of punched its way out of me. It wouldn't let me stop until I'd finished it!

There’s a crackle in his chest that won’t go away.

Which, come on. It should have, by now. It’s been weeks. Weeks! 

It should be gone by now.

It should be _gone_.

Unless he’s making it up. Like it’s all in his head. 

“Is that cough still not gone?” one of his teammates will say. 

And he will shrug, and throw them a smile while something tightens in his chest, completely unrelated to the cough and the crackle. But no one knows about the crackle. He hides it, because what if he’s making it up? What if he’s lying to everyone, even himself, just for attention?

“It’s just a cold or something. I’m fine.”

“We have a whole infirmary, Tony. Go see a doctor,” another will order.

Tony makes a face and forces down a mouthful of peppermint tea. Which, yeah. Out of all the teas he’s been forced to try over his life, peppermint is the least-offensive of the boiled leaf waters.

Of course, it ends up all down his front when another sharp, wet cough stabs through him. He hears the crackle and pop in his chest and something dislodges, and with a disgusted grimace, he spits another glob of rusty brown down the sink drain.

He’s fine. Just a chest cold. It’ll go away. There’s no need for a doctor. He doesn’t need to go to a doctor. Doesn’t want to.

Because what if he’s making it up?

It really did start off as a summer cold. And a mild one at that. Just some sniffles, and Tony was milking it for all it was worth. He would shuffle around the Avengers’ common floor wrapped up in a blanket, a bunch of tissues wadded up in his hand. Everyone indulged him, because the moment a call came to assemble, they all knew he would drop his blanket and tissues and bolt to be suited up. And besides, complaining made him feel better.

The sniffles and sneezing tapered off within a couple weeks. But the cough. The tickle at the back of his throat, at first. And then a week after the sniffles stopped, the quiet, yet sharp, snap and crackle in his chest. Tony started waving away people’s concern, assuring each and every person that no, he wasn’t feeling poorly. It was just a little chest cold. Steve would eye him cautiously from across the room, trusting Tony’s judgment yet unable to shake away his concern. Thor accepted Tony’s assurances wholesale. Bruce was less willing to accept Tony’s insistence that he was doing just fine. Clint liked to badger Tony into seeing the doctor anyways, though he was always rebuffed. Nat- well. She didn’t really appear to be watching him, but she’s a goddamn _spy_. 

He invests in cough syrup. The non-drowsy kind. He becomes more and more exhausted anyways, as the days go by. His chest hurts, like it’s been kicked by a horse, and what he coughs up goes from dull green to rusty tan to darker brown. He tries to go on with business as usual, although he avoids his teammates and friends whenever possible. He doesn’t want to trick them into thinking he’s _really_ sick. After all, he’s probably just exaggerating. 

And there’s a fever.

\-------------------------------------

When Tony was a child, he had frequent fevers. No particular cause, and never so high to be particularly dangerous, but later in life, he would find that the fevers had apparently caused the crowns of his adult molars to not form properly. Go figure. 

He was not a sickly child, but there were fevers. 

At first his parents indulged him. Let him stay home from school (read, let him skip meeting with his private home instructors), let him nap and drink orange juice and rest until the fever broke. But then he started getting older, moved on from kindergarten to first grade, and from first to second, and by the time he left fifth grade, he was starting to learn that he really shouldn’t be missing school for something like a fever. 

Then came the praises. In sixth grade he threw up mere minutes after rolling out of bed. But he knew it was just a fever. He felt hot, and sick, and like his head was full of cotton, but while he let his parents know, he still chose to go to school.

When he was sent home for a high fever- 103.2- Howard ruffled his damp hair and told him, “I’m so proud of you for sticking it out, son.”

In seventh grade, he woke up with a sandpaper throat, and shuffled in to breakfast. 

“I don’t think I’m sick,” he prefaced. “I just, uh, I want you to know my throat hurts. In case I get sick later. I still want to go to school.”

He tried so hard to acknowledge that maybe he wasn’t sick. Maybe he just needed a little time to wake up.

As it turned out, he _wasn’t_ sick, and that was fine. What wasn’t fine was how, as he shuffled back up the stairs, his mother murmured something to Howard.

And Howard said, “No. You know how he makes these things up. He’s just faking.”

Tony wasn’t sure what to do about that. 

He remembers getting dressed and ready for the day, but rather than going downstairs again to actually eat, he sat down on the floor of his room, back pressed to the wall, and looped his arms around his knees.

Did he fake? He didn’t think so. When he felt bad, he felt bad, and that was that, right? 

But Howard was his dad, and he was so much older and smarter than Tony. 

Howard had to know what he was talking about. 

But did that mean Tony was lying to himself too? If he thought he was sick, but he was really just making it up, then what was he supposed to do?

In eighth grade, he started realizing Howard was hurting him.

Just not, physically. 

Just his feelings. Which was fine. It was Tony’s fault anyways. He always was too sensitive. 

It didn’t make things any better, though, when Howard would talk about Tony’s anole, Jules. 

“Skin and bones, that thing,” Howard would laugh, clapping Tony on the shoulder as the younger Stark fed her mealworms. Tony would look up at his dad and smile thinly, because that was what Howard expected from him. “We could cook it up, get maybe a mouthful of meat at the _most_. I bet it’d cook in a minute, tops.”

Tony’s smile would crack away by that point, as it always did when Howard joked about killing Jules. Tony knew his dad would never really do it, but Jules was _his_. Keeping her happy and alive was one of the best things in Tony’s life, though he knew he would be chastised if he ever said it aloud. Having to imagine her dead and skinned, cooked on a plate?

It usually made him cry. Which made Howard angry. Which scared Tony, because Howard had always been bigger, and stronger, and older than him. And then Tony would cry harder, and Howard would go red in the face and harshly snap, 

“Grow thicker skin, Anthony. Stop _crying_ or I’ll give you something to really cry about!”

Later, when Tony was still calming down, Howard would come back to him, looking so contrite. 

“You know I love you, right?” he would say softly. He always wanted a hug, though Tony would start to flinch from them eventually. “It was just a joke. I’m sorry you took it wrong, but you overreacted. It doesn’t matter. You know I love you.”

And then they would repeat, because although Tony hated them, Howard loved his jokes. 

And they weren’t _really_ hurtful, anyways. Howard said they were just jokes, that they were alright, so Tony knew that meant it was his fault for being upset. He just needed to, as Howard said, ‘Learn how to take a joke’.

Yet again, though, Tony wasn’t sure what to do. Because he thought he had known when he was hurt. Sometimes he tried to defend himself, his knowledge. 

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” was a staple phrase in their interactions, when he was young. 

Tony would nod, smiling wanly. Sometimes he would trust the words, and confide in his dad. 

“Dad,” he would say carefully, uncertain. “I can talk to you about anything, right?”

“Of course, son. Anything.”

And Howard would put down what he was working on and turn to Tony, and Tony would wring his hands together.

“Sometimes you scare me,” Tony would rush. “I know you don’t mean to, but sometimes you say things that hurt me and when I say so you get mad.”

And Howard would look so _hurt_.

“You know I’d never hurt you, Tony,” Howard would say so, so gently. 

Tony would knod, and shrug.

“I know you don’t mean to,” he would reply. “But sometimes you do, and you don’t listen when I ask you to stop.”

Howard would start getting angry, as the conversation progressed and Tony refused to take back his words.

“I am your father,” he would say eventually, if Tony didn’t back down. “I _will_ not be disrespected.”

“I’m not trying to disrespect you,” Tony would try to say. “But I don’t want to be afraid of you.”

Tony would try to reference Howard joking about killing Jules, or threatening him with some unknown punishment if he kept crying, or mocking his occasional inability to remember things no matter how hard he tried. 

“When did I say that? Hmm? When?”

That was always, _always_ the response Tony received. In the moment, Tony would be flustered, his memory spotty, and he would be unable to give Howard the dates he wanted. He always resolved to keep a journal of all his interactions with Howard, in case he faced the question again (which he did. Several times), but he never remembered to do so. 

And Tony wasn’t sure how, but he _always_ left those conversations feeling worse than he had started. Not only that, but somewhere along the way he would feel guilty and confused, and always, without fail, ended up apologizing to Howard. 

‘You can tell me anything’ became a lie, and it didn’t matter, because he was always wrong anyways. He was wrong, making it up, faking when he said he felt sick. He was insulting and offensive when he said he was scared. He was overreacting and making things up. 

He learned to keep his thoughts, his heart to himself.

He learned to hide his tears. 

He learned to need no one.

\-------------------------------------

Tony finds himself in the hospital. Not the infirmary, not a clinic. A hospital. He closes his eyes, fights back the burning in his eyes. He shouldn’t be here. He’s wasting everyone’s time.

But what can you do when a spy and a supersoldier muscle you into a car and take you straight there? Over nothing. Well, not really. Some flecks of red on a tissue when he coughed. 

It’s fine though. He’s probably exaggerating. He does that sometimes.

It used to be, once he reached a certain age, that he cried every time he went to the doctor. It was guilt, he thought. Whenever Howard got a bill in the mail, from a dentist visit to repair his malformed molars, or an orthopedic specialist when he broke his wrist.

‘Let’s see those $2000 teeth,’ Howard would say, waving the bill around. ‘That $3000 wrist. Must be pretty goddamn special.’

“Mr. Stark?”

Tony blinks up at the doctor, who’s removed the stethoscope from his back. He flashes her a winning smile, holding back a coughing fit.

“Sorry. Got distracted.”

“That’s alright. I was just saying that my preliminary diagnosis would be pneumonia. I’m going to send you down for a chest X-ray to verify. Is that okay?”

A few hours later, he’s officially diagnosed with pneumonia, although they’re waiting on the culture of the shit he coughed up to determine whether it’s bacterial or viral. They want him to check into inpatient care, to monitor him until he shows signs of recovery.

“I’m surprised you were able to walk in here,” the doctor says, looking over his charts. “Your blood-oxygen content is low, very low.”

Tony isn’t surprised. He’s a good pretender, after all.

\-------------------------------------

Once upon a time, Tony’s mother took him to therapy once a week.

Dr. Norris had been a round, kind man, with dimples and plentiful laugh-lines. Tony remembers being shy, his little seven-year-old hand completely enveloped in Dr. Norris’s as they shook together. Maria has pressed a kiss to his forehead and promised she would be back for him in an hour.

Dr. Norris had shared his stash of peppermints with Tony, and Tony always picked out the green ones, which were sweeter than the red ones. He remembers liking that.

He was a chatterbox. Tony can admit that. He talked about so many things, so many events, so many people. He talked about Alan, his first-ever anole (brown with tan spots, and a bright red dewlap). About being homeschooled, and the group school sessions he had with some of the other homeschooled kids. About how he was rising up through the grades so, so quickly. Two a year, at least. About those little sweet scone things Jarvis made- his wife’s recipe.

They talked about a lot of things, as Tony grew up. Some things were much more difficult and distressing than others, but still, they talked.

Howard was the one person Tony wouldn’t talk about. Dr. Norris would gently probe sometimes, try to tempt Tony into talking of his father, but Tony never failed to clam up.

He was afraid.

Afraid, actually, that he would ruin his father’s life if he opened his mouth. He was afraid that if he told Dr. Norris about how he and Howard interacted, that he might exaggerate by accident, and convince Dr. Norris that Howard was abusing him. Not physically. But emotionally. 

He was afraid that if he unintentionally exaggerated, as he knew himself prone to do, that Dr. Norris would be forced to take action, and Howard would be charged with abuse, and he, Tony, would have ruined his dad’s life, all because he had a tendency to take and say things the wrong way. 

As the weeks progressed, the duties of taking Tony to therapy fell into Jarvis’s lap. Jarvis was the one who held him tightly if he came out crying. Jarvis was the one who praised Tony for being so brave, so strong, to talk about the things that were hard to say.

Tony thought it wasn’t fair, that he lie to Jarvis too. He tried not to, but still he seemed to trick Jarvis into thinking he was brave and strong and good. 

The weekly therapy sessions came to an end when Tony was ten years old. After the first couple of months, Howard had started asking him when he could stop going to therapy, when he expected to be cured. Tony didn’t know when he was going to be ‘cured’. He didn’t even know what he was supposed to be cured of.

Later, he would learn that Maria had suspected he was depressed, and while in hindsight she wasn’t wrong, Tony wasn’t told until he was older.

Howard kept asking, and Tony grew less and less certain. He liked Dr. Norris. Dr. Norris helped him make sense of things, helped him figure out ways to calm down, and how to be nicer to himself. But obviously, Tony was taking too long doing whatever it was he was supposed to be doing. Howard said the visits were expensive, and that Tony ought to be able to get by on his own. And Howard was so much stronger and older and smarter than Tony was, so he had to be right.

Tony very politely told Maria and Howard that no thank you, he would not like to go see Dr. Norris any more. Howard had grinned and clapped him on the shoulder and said, “I’m proud of you, standing on your own two feet.”

Tony just felt cold.

\-------------------------------------

The fever gets worse, he thinks. Maybe. He can’t be sure. His thoughts slip out of his mind like olive oil through a sieve, viscous and slippery and uncatchable.

He remains in bed, mostly, and doctors seem to constantly breeze in and out of his room. He hears snatches of phrases, snippets of sound. Things like ‘drug-resistant’ and ‘blue lips’ and ‘oxygen mask’. He thrashes when someone tries to cover his face with something, batting weakly at hands that smooth across his forehead. He coughs, again and again and again, tasting iron in his mouth. A stabbing pain crushes his chest, and it has nothing to do with the reactor. 

“It’s alright, Mr. Stark,” he hears from far away. “We’re just going to help you breathe.”

He feels cold metal wrap around his fingers.

“You’re gonna be okay, Tones. It’s gonna be okay.”

“I’m sorry,” he gasps.

“No, no, doll, y’r fine. Watcha got to be sorry for?”

Tony doesn’t _know_ , but the hand holding his steadies him enough to let the thing go over his face. He feels lightheaded.

“Sorry, s’rry,” he mumbles between piercing, rattling coughs, muffled behind the thing on his face, until exhaustion claims him.

\-------------------------------------

Later, days later, Tony wakes from his fitful bouts of both natural and induced sleep. In and out of consciousness, able and unable to breathe. His mouth tastes like ass.

The room is filled with flowers, and he blinks groggily at the man sleeping in a generic hospital room chair. 

“Buck?” he rasps, letting one of his hands flop out over the edge of the bed. Needles and tubes, all taped in place, pull at the skin. Bucky Barnes is up in an instant, ever the light sleeper. He’s still in his full tactical gear. Fresh back from Milan. It was Milan, right? Tony closes his eyes again.

Bucky laces their fingers together, and Tony brings the hand in his up to rest against his cheek.

“I feel like shit.” 

The words set off another round of coughing, which hurts like a bitch, but it’s not as bad as before. He thinks. He thinks it might have been worse. But it’s all a bit… fuzzy.

“Sorry t’say, doll, but y’look it too.”

“No prizes for honestly, mister. Tell me I’m pretty.”

Bucky laughs, a small, quiet thing. 

“Y’r very pretty. The prettiest.”

Tony wrinkles his nose, hating the feeling of the tubes stuck up his nostrils. 

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

He’s so, so tired, but Bucky lets go of his hand, just long enough to go get a nurse. 

Apparently he’s still in bad shape, as he learns when the doctor comes by. Nails and lips are tinged blue, still suffering from blockages in his lungs. Apparently over the time he was delirious, his lungs had needed to be surgically drained, and he’s meant to remain resting while recovering from that. He coughs up brown phlegm, which, much to his humiliation, is taken by the nurses to be tested. At least there’s no more red.

Tony rests his head back on the pillow, each breath rasping in his chest. He’s so, so tired.

Bucky’s fingers brush Tony’s hair out of his eyes, and Tony grimaces.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks again, the tight burning in his eyes forcing a pair of tears free of Tony’s lashes. Bucky wipes them away with diligence. 

“What for?”

“For bein’ an idiot. I shouldn’t have let myself get sick.”

“You did’n _let_ yourself get sick, Tones. It just sorta happens sometimes, ‘s’all.”

Tony forces an empty smile. 

\-------------------------------------

When he’s discharged a few weeks later (yes, fucking _weeks_. Apparently being the carrier of a multi-drug resistant bacteria is reason for imprisonment in that white-walled hell, in his case), there’s a welcome home gathering when Pepper escorts him back to the Tower. There’s even a ‘glad you didn’t die’ cake (Clint’s doing. Steve made the mistake of letting him decorate it). Bucky mother-hens him half to death, watching him like a hawk for any signs of respiratory distress. For fuck’s sake, Bucky won’t even _kiss_ Tony for fear of making him short of breath. A month apart due to a mission, then nearly another month stuck in a hospital, and Bucky won’t bow down to Tony’s suggestion of ‘welcome home’ marathon sex. 

The cake is good, though. Steve’s Ma’s recipe. Someone, _somehow_ , had Sarah Rogers’ old cookbook in their possession, and had gifted it to the good Captain. Apparently she hadn’t been able to do a lot of the fancier recipes due to lack of funds, but Steve has reverently made each and every thing in that book at least twice now.

Tony tires out quickly, and Bucky bundles him off to bed. Despite the lack of racoon makeup, he still has bags under his eyes. Lack of sleep, Tony thinks. He feels guilt eat away at his stomach. He should have been able to stand on his own two feet, rather than putting his partner through all the worry he had. 

“I’ll take a nap if you lay with me,” Tony bargains, and, surprisingly, Bucky agrees. They snuggle together under the thick covers, and Tony presses his cold feet against Bucky’s legs. The ex-assassin hisses and levels a glare at Tony, but doesn’t attempt to escape.

Tony is, predictably, the first to fall asleep. When he wakes up again, though, he’s warm, and safe. Bucky’s forehead is pressed against the back of Tony’s neck, and both arms are wrapped tightly, protectively around him. 

\-------------------------------------

Two weeks later, Tony makes a therapy appointment. It’s impulsive, and not at all premeditated, but he gets in contact with Dr. Norris, who doesn’t practice anymore and specialized in pediatric psychology anyways, and obtains a reference. An appointment is made, and Tony doesn’t really intend to go, in the end.

But he does. Of course he does.

He doesn't have anyone to fear anymore, he thinks as he sits there with Dr. Harrison, nervously picking at the legs of his pants. He doesn't want the fear of someone's ghost killing him.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit that Kudos button! Write that comment!


End file.
